Island Life - Year 2008
Vol. 10 - No. 19
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Welcome to the 10th year of this weekly column. This space is updated
each week, 52 times per year. This page is modified each week on Sunday evening, or Monday morning, depending on how the booze holds out. Send news, clues and rumors to owen@Island-Life.net. To review news and items for past years, scroll to the bottom. George Bush's last day is 01/20/09 (Hooray!). |
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MAY 11, 2007(rev.) HERE FOR NOW This week we celebrate Mother's Day with a picture of Madonna and Child, courtesy of Chad.
Little Oscar there just passed the six months mark and already has all the ladies swooning in the House. They say he is going to make a great fisherman. MERCY STREET
We are happy to report that Windows Secrets has two kids up for sponsorship, as we forgot to include last month's honoree. In the words of Fred Langa, former editor of the techie newsletter: Each month, we send a full year of sponsorship to a different child. In April 2008, your contributions help us to sponsor Gabriela Ivón, a 5-year-old girl from Zapopan, Jalisco state, in the central region of Mexico. She lives with her family and has two siblings. Aid to Gabriela and her village is provided by Children International, a nonprofit organization that serves 11 countries. We also sponsor kids through Save the Children and other respected agencies. In May 2008, your contributions help us to sponsor Ricardo, a 5-year-old boy who lives in the Philippines. Aid to Ricardo and his village is provided by Plan International, one of the world's largest development organizations, which has been serving kids since 1937. One thing that editor-at-large Fred Langa and I agree on is that it's important to help disadvantaged people around the world. Ever since the LangaList newsletter and Windows Secrets merged in November 2006, we've continued to sponsor children in developing countries with a portion of your contributions — we just haven't taken the time to write about it. Your support is helping to fund a school health and nutrition program in Souleymane's community, managed by Save the Children, a respected nongovernmental organization. According to the group, 73% of Mali's 11.7 million people live on U.S. $1 or less per day, so contributions go far. In future months, we will select children benefiting from the programs of other respected relief agencies, including Oxfam International and Unicef. We can't save the world, but we can do something. Supporting education and nutrition programs is our focus, but Windows Secrets has also donated to the One Laptop Per Child effort. This contribution will result in one kid-size PC going to a student in a developing country and another being donated by us to a school in the U.S. We very much appreciate your support of our research into the secrets of Windows. To get our paid content for a full 12 months, use the following link:
CRIMESTOPPERS NOTEBOOK Officer O'Madhauen really scored big when he pulled over one feller for erratic driving, discovering over 22 pounds of pot in the car, proving our pushers are a really special breed. Also in another Only on the Island another bank was held up in the Old Style of the early fifties with a takeover, prompting our fashionistas to comment on the current vogue among takeover specialists, whcih have become a kind of rare category here. Other places around the country experience a takeover robbery in the old style maybe once every ten years or so. We, who are very special on the Island, experience a bank takeover some every six months. This time, the Credit Union on Webb Avenue earned the honors. In Oaktown they use bullet-proof glass dividers, but here on the Island, such things would be considered rude and perhaps indicating suspicions about your neighbors. As a consequence, we have a lot of takeover robberies, which feature a gentleman entering a bank with a knapsack, from which he extracts a pistol and threatens to kill everybody unless somebody gives him money. Its a crude system for earning a living, but it has worked here so far. Al Capone did well by it, so why not? Its tradition. These days the chic bankrobber wears a hoodie of understated grey or dark blue, accented by blue jeans by Levi-Strauss or Bill Blass and stylish Nike or Converse track shoes. Red is definitely out for this ensemble, completed by a black shoulder knapsack from Sierra Designs and understated bling. Hair by Supercuts, clothes from Nordstrom Rack. Shoes from Mr. Thoms. Pistol supplied by Traders in Fremont. This past week we enjoyed 5 battery reports, 3 strongarm robberies, one DOA, and numerous DUI and vandalism incidents. No dog bites reported this week. MY ANALYST SAYS I AM QUITE OUT OF MY HEAD The rest of the world sees recession, housing downturn, and imminent Apocalypse, but Islanders of all types see things a little differently and visitors who want to make a buck never have let reality in the way of making a profit. One developer's dream of a 104 house "village" got the kibosh recently in a rare demonstration of common sense here. It is prime property seperated from the Bay by lots of green open space. However it also happens to be cheek by jowl with the airport main runway, promising some 582 overhead flights per day, and right by an industrial park that runs 24x7 with operating factories and processing plants. According to a recent newspaper report, the 104 new homes would ease the regional housing crunch, but "none of the homes would be affordable." (Alameda Sun, vol 7, #34, It takes a runway to sink a village, Marc Albert). Truely a genius project that gives one pause. 104 homes built on a swamp adjacent to an international airport and none of them affordable. Meanwhile developers are trying to develop the Point to include "affordable housing" under a court order to do so, more developers are seeking to develop the Cannery area, yet more developers have infested the Beltline property and still more developers are trying to foist an Oak to 9th Street project on Oaktown across the way even as the last big one sits largely vacant in the new buildings down by the vegetable warehouses. And we have numbskulls trying to pay for the multiplex boondoggle here by holding a $100 per ticket "gala" on opening night on the 21st. We encourage all of you to show up wearing "Eat the Rich" T-shirts and whiskey cologne to great the Great Hoity Toity that night. PSA Free ferry rides for bike riders with "valid" bicycles to and from the City on Bike to Work Day, May 15th. Thanks to the Ferries for the free rides to KFOG's KABOOM this weekend. Attendance was estimated to be around 350,000 down on the piers to hear Los Lobos, Matt Nathanson, Collective Soul and see the fireworks which we hear went off swimmingly. Officer O'Madhauen is romping and stomping with yet another enforcement program to begin Monday and continue until June 1, during which period the IPD will "aggressively enforce" the seatbelt law. Buckle up, dudes. MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC Some notables coming up include Hot Tuna The Waybacks Barry “The Fish” Melton Band BRETT DENNEN - May 15 - Zellerbach Kate Wolf Memorial Music Festival - June 27-29 - Laytonville, California: The Kate Wolf thing is for those who enjoy a bit of hippish tenting and all-night jams around the old campground. Gorka and Brown appearing together ought to lower the octave level some notches. THE LUSTY MONTH OF MAY May Day here is always one worthy of at least a sparkler or two. Buried behind Page three was an event of note. The largest container port area in the world shut down for a day in protest against war. Yes, all 29 of the West Coast ports shut entirely down for a day. Oh, you did not hear about that? This is an excerpt from the Bay Guardian on the event: "Workers, students, immigrants, and antiwar activists came together in historic fashion on May Day in San Francisco, but it was hard to tell from the next day's mainstream media coverage, which adopted its usual cynical view of the growing movement to end the war in Iraq. Sure, there were articles in newspapers from the San Francisco Chronicle to the New York Times about how the International Longshore and Warehouse Union shut down all 29 West Coast ports for the day, with far more than 10,000 workers defying both their employers and the national union leadership to skip work. But each article missed the main point: this was the first time in American history that such a massive job action was called to protest a war. "In this country, dock workers have never stopped work to stop a war," Jack Heyman, the ILWU executive board member and Oakland Port worker who spearheaded the effort, told the Guardian. The ILWU's "No Peace, No Work" campaign and simultaneous worker-led shutdowns of the Iraqi ports of Umm Qasr and Khor Al Zubair are part of a broader effort, called US Labor Against the War, that labor scholars agree is something new to the political landscape of this country. USLAW has about 200 union locals and affiliates with a detailed policy platform that calls for ending war funding, redirecting resources from the military to domestic needs, and boosting workers' rights — including those of immigrants, who staged an afternoon march in San Francisco following the ILWU's morning event. Traditionally labor unions have been big supporters of US wars. But Pitts said the feelings of rank-and-file workers have always been more complex than the old "hard hats vs. hippies" stories from the Vietnam era might indicate. This time, union members and the public as a whole have more aggressively pushed their opposition to the Iraq War, winning antiwar resolutions among the biggest unions in the country and in hundreds of US cities and counties. Even for protest-happy San Francisco, it was an unusually spirited May Day, with more than 1,000 people appearing at each of the four main rallies and two big marches. There were lots of smaller actions as well, including demonstrations at the ICE offices and Marine recruiting center, and activists from the Freedom From Oil Campaign disrupting a Commonwealth Club speech by General Motors CEO Rick Wagoner. But it was the port shutdown that was unique. Annually the 29 West Coast ports process 368 million tons of goods, averaging more than 1 million tons a day moved by 15,000 registered ILWU workers and a number of other "casuals." Eight percent of that comes in and out of Oakland, but West Coast trade affects business throughout the country — as many as 8 million other workers come in contact with some aspect of that trade. Mike Zampa, spokesperson for APL — the eighth-largest container shipping company in the world, with ports in Oakland, Los Angeles, and Seattle — told us, "Over a long period of time a shutdown like this does have an impact on the US economy"." More port shutdowns are possible, organizers said. HYMN FOR HER Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The weather for this Mother's Day turned out to be bright and cool, almost as if we have skipped Spring and moved right into our usual foggy summer. But the roses are all busting out, ready for May Day and Mothers everywhere here.
Islanders practiced the usual routines and rituals practiced on this day. Among the smaller folk, there was the breakfast in bed thing which Mrs. Almeida enjoyed as the tykes came tromping in with trays of orange juice, pancake plates, Denver omlette, coffee, sliced fruit, strawberries, Cheerios, and prunes in a dish. That last one was little Albert's idea and he was particularly proud of it and his eyes beamed so merrily upon the surprised comment from his mother it really was worth it. After all, that look is what mothers live for, we are told. Not so enjoyable was the mess in the kitchen, although Mr. Almeida certainly did his best to limit the damage and sweep up the broken glass -- quietly, quietly so as not to disturb Mom -- and figure out what to do with the brown agglutination found at the base of the kitchen table, the responsiblity for which not a bright eyed soul could admit. "Vamanos! Vamanos! Go to Paganos y comprar "cleanser". Remember that? Cleanser!" It turned out to be quite a day for the Almeida household. Some whose moms have passed on also paid dutiful obesiance to the day. Mr. Cribbage folded himself into his truck with a bouquet of flowers so as to ride across the Bridge and down the 101 to Colma, City of the Dead and there lay his annual contribution on the headstone there. BERTHA CRIBBAGE Mr. Cribbage stood there in the bright California sunshine on the hillside that looked over the sprawl of what had become Daly City to the Pacific Ocean, trying to remember if he had paid the water bill for the troublesome unit on Otis Street. A rough caw interrupted his thoughts. A few markers away a crow stood on a memorial to a fallen child and looked at him as if to say, "What are you doing, man? Shouldnt you be strolling under the magnolias with a wife at least ten years younger than yourself?" Well, he may have imagined that last part, the meaning of that look but he bent down to hunt for a stone to throw. This bird only served to remind him of the terrible bridge club meeting that ended so badly with the madeira and the cheeselog all ruined. Ah! A piece of gravel! This he hurled with ferocity at the black bird, which only rose up, fluttered a few feet away and settled with a sense of proprietorship that Mr. Cribbage felt was entirely undeserved. We shall not dwell in this place any longer than necessary. For the good part of the morning Mr. Cribbage chased the bird about the grounds of Colma with increasingly murderous intent, and a good part of the afternoon was spent with Colma officials and groundskeepers in an attempt to secure a more organized approach against his personal enemy. For the record, Bertha Cribbage's last words were, "Well, I meant to tell you all . . . oh nevermind." Percy Worthington Boughsplatt took his mother for a ride in his immaculate two-toned 1939 Mandeville-Brot coupe, along with his consort, the lovely Miss Hinckle, who wore a fetching riding cap, her usual feather boa and, in deference to the temperature, thigh-high suede boots and a waiscoat. And, to the scandal of Mrs. Boughsplatt, not a stitch else. They had a lovely picnic down the 101 where the orchards used to roll out endlessly back in the day when Mrs. Boughsplatt would go for a ride in the Rambler into the country. Which is now something other than country. "How horrid is Foster City and all that it pertains," said Mrs. Boughsplatt. "Lets go to Monterey." And so they did and had Orange Blossom Specials looking out over the twisted beach pines. Mrs. Boughsplatt got quite giddy and almost took off all her clothes before the lovely Miss Hinckle, who sometimes did maintain a surprising level of common sense and decency, enjoined her to visit the Monterey Aquarium. "Percy," said Mrs. Boughsplatt. "Whenever are you two going to get married?" Over at the Squat on Otis, folks celebrated moms and motherhood each to each in their respective manners and customs. Marlene and Andre took Marlene's mom over to Momma's cafe in Berkeley and Marlene's mom only punched one guy in the face during the entire affair and that was after they all had eaten and stepped outside, quite unlike the year before when they had all been bounced from Kincaids after a riot over the piano player, who had ignored the elder Marlene's repeated request to play "Saturday's Alright for Fighting." Marlene's mom had been a steelworker at the Port and many were the Teamsters who had learned to reckon with the woman's formidible right cross. The altercation in front of Mommas happened because some yuppie walking by with a cell phone tumor glowing on his ear happened to mutter something about the "damn unions." Probably to incite the crowd gathered at Mommas as he headed toward a more chic eatery. Wherever the boy had been headed, he never got there. At least not that day. "Hell, boy, I remember the cable car strike of 1916 like it was yesterday when we fought with blood for our rights! You pansy-assed stool-warmers are all a bunch of milk-sap pussies! I'll teach you!" Then came the punch. Shortly after that, then came the cops. That Mom of Marlene's sure had a short fuse. Bear rode out with his mom on the back of his 1958 Ironhead Harley to Martinez for the Momday BBQ. Sophia followed along behind in the Geo in case either one of them got into trouble and they had to leave the bike in storage. Even though the beer flowed freely and the band really cooked with all the usual biker favorites from Lynrd Skynrd and Van Halen, the two remained fairly sedate and so Sophia sat their watching them. Mrs. Bear got a little teary and started working on some of that "reverse guilt trip" thing. She really regretted the lack of stability during Bear's growing up. And the night his favorite plushtoy, Tinky-Winky-Ralph got thrown into a bonfire down at the beach. Yeah, Bear had never forgot that one. Mrs. Bear sat back and started to cry. There was so much she wanted to give him, but somehow things didn't work out. Husbands. Guys. Jobs. All the drugs and jail . . . Always a screwup somewhere. The time the kids beat him up at the high school because of his friend Elroy. "Wiggers, they called us. 'Wiggers!" She never wanted . . . she never wanted THIS. This? Oh this kind of life. She wanted him to be really something and show them all. But the ugliness of everything around threatened to overwhelm like an immense tidal wave. Hatred. Racism. Contempt. Superiority. All that drags down. Sophia saw the moment to step in. "Bear is just fine by me. I love him. And you oughta be proud at what you accomplished, because Bear is honest and true and there is no better man. He might have some rough edges, but I can live with that and more for all the good that is in him. He aint hooked on smack. He aint a thief. And he aint a wussy. And he aint doing the round trip to the slammer. There is so many who grew up the same way who cant claim that. So something you did worked out all right. Mom you did your best and you did good and that is that." This brought out another burst of tears from Mrs. Bear. And the speech stunned the little crowd there in the park in Martinez, the hardest of the one percenters, the toughest of the tough, for nothing is more sentimental than an honest Biker in his cups. The others out paying for their ride with credit cards are just buying imaginary "freedom". These guys were the real deal. Pretty soon the band resumed with REM covers and the three of them returned to the Island, with Mrs. Bear feeling a little better about herself. Which is really all the best one can ask of Mother's Day, isn't it? After all, she gave so much. Or at least all that she could, given the circumstances. That's just the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
MAY 4, 2008 COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN
This week's headline photos come courtesy of Chad and protesters from the English Only Movement in Texas, a land not known for mellow tolerance. Or high IQs.
Seems a few of these folks need to either switch to Spanish or just go back to school. Capece?
MISSING YOU
Our narrow little world of computer geeks and tech doctors features few that are truely the best and brightest, while preserving a sound heart, so when one of these departs for greener pastures, loud is the lamentation in the Land of Silicon. Fred Langa editor-at-large of the Windows Secrets Newsletter, and former editor of Byte Magazine, has recently announced his retirement, effective nearly immediately, after well over thirty years of trying to help the hapless "user" and the sysop figure out those devilish PCs and Apple Macs, finding the space and time to establish a wonderful scholarship program that supports bright kids living in the Third World who otherwise would not have had a snowball's chance in hell. Those of us greybeards who recall the Commodore 64 and the Trash-80 and carrying punch cards (egads!)down the stairs to the Computer Center will have to soldier on as best we may with a LINUX that no longer threatens to set monitors on fire, with Windows that actually can stay up without memory leaks for more than 48 hours, with NOVELL using a non-DOS boot partition greater than 50mb, and Apples that employ honest-to-god parts available from Office Depot. Here is a quote from our Editor in Chief, who penned a goodbye letter to Mr. Langa. "[your] greatest contribution, in my humble opinion, was the constant gentle reminder of the humanity residing inside the humming engine sitting before the keyboard. From the Third-world kid sponsorship to the humor and the simple admonition "Stay Human", your contribution has been incalculable and your presence will be sorely missed. I don't exactly how I am going to report this without sounding like an obit on my own blog, established back in 1997 before the word "blog" even existed (o the gray hairs!), but I will keep the hyperlink to Windows Secrets in hopes that the new editors will carry on some of the same warmth and intelligence you gave us for 30 years." And in Fred's own words, here is an excerpt from his final column. FROM FRED LANGA'S LAST COLUMN "Remember your humanity Alas, the world of high tech isn't immune to some of humankind's baser impulses. For example, consider Apple's elitist marketing. A PC is a tool, not a lifestyle, but Apple embraces the dark side and tries to sell its PCs by appealing to vanity and narcissism, implying that owning an Apple makes you smarter, cooler, and just plain better than those sorry-assed PC people. Yes, it's a small thing, but the world has enough divisive issues in it without Apple marketers trying to invent silly new ones. It's just a computer, Apple! How about thinking really "different" and coming up with ads that don't promote snobbery and elitism? Apple execs aren't the only tech snobs This is a corollary to the above item. Apple's leaders just happen to be the worst offenders in the computer industry, and that's why I'm singling them out here. But I personally boycott any products whose main sales pitch is based on making one group of people think that they're inherently better than others. If you're as bothered by such ugly marketing ploys as I am, perhaps you'll consider a similar personal boycott. Reboot from time to time A full reboot is a chance to shut down, cool off, clean out, and start fresh without carrying along needless baggage from previous operations. Windows, Mac, Linux, and most personal electronics devices all can benefit from a periodic full shutdown and restart. And, you know, so can your real, human life. And that's what I'm about to do: reboot my life. I'm not sure what comes next, but part of the fun will be in finding out. (If you'd like to come along for the ride, check out my free non-computer-related blog.) Although I'm stepping back from day-to-day computer writing, I'll still be reading Windows Secrets so I can stay on top of the essential information I need to keep my own PCs humming smoothly. I'll be a reader here, right beside you, for a long time to come. But for now, let's see how this reboot thing works: Ctrl+Alt+Del . . ."
The draconian budget cuts proposed by Der Governator are beginning to hit home here after an already austere past year. With just two months left in the school year, Anthony Kuns has quit as principal of Encinal High School, less than a year after he stepped into the post. Superintendent Ardella Dailey announced the resignation in a letter to parents on Friday. A reason for the departure of Kuns - a veteran administrator who came to Alameda from John F. Kennedy High School in Fremont - remains unstated. Dailey said she has appointed Mike Cooper, Encinal's former vice-principal, as "administrator in charge" of the campus for the remainder of the school year, and acting principal for the following term. The departure of the 57-year-old Kuns comes as district officials are wrestling with a projected $4.5 million budget deficit and after they have sent layoff notices to 15 teachers in an effort to curb costs. They also recently have cut money from music and high school sports. Encinal High School has about 1,400 students and is located in the Island's West End near the former U.S. Navy base. MAY, MAY THE LUSTY MONTH OF MAY Its been a quiet week on the Island, our Hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The weather has been cool during the day with a roil of cloud and high fog leading to nippy evenings. With the price of an oil barrel topping $120 and gas prices knocking down the $4.00 barrier all over, more and more Islanders are taking to eco-friendly personal transportation like bicycles, while O'Connell Volvo is doing a brisk business in selling electric cars and trucks. Mr. Dominici, the owner of the Ace Hardware, purchased a Hummer in a fit of perversity and self-loathing for the asking price of $3000. Thats right; read it again and weep. The onetime behometh weighing in at six tons and $45,000 went for a song from some hapless fool who realized too late that the price of ostentatiousness is yet more price. And that story is no fiction. Meanwhile, with the economy tanking with great seriousness, the local realtors are trying to defeat Reality by raising all the rents and pretending the Housing Thing never happened. Over at Marlene and Andre's, the House on Otis got a modest increase from Mr. Howitzer for their one bedroom to $4,000 per month. "Does this mean they are going to fix the plumbing?" Occasional Quentin said, when he heard about it. Fortunately, with about twelve people, four dogs, six cats and at least three hamsters splitting the cost, the rent there comes down to something close to reasonable. It seemed with the increase and times being as hard as they were all over, the decision was made to allow for yet more sublets. Pahrump figured that folks could sublet their sleeping accomodations to other folks who worked the graveyard shift. Or vice versa. So Andre got together with Tipitina, who alone among them all possessed significant carpentry skills, and Marsha and Piedro and Xavier and Suan scrounging up wood and screws to build out their bunks, for it seemed pretty clear that Pahrump's space under the coffee table would have to go. Occasional Quentin offered courteously and in a most gentemanly fashion to share his sleeping accomodations with Suan, who slapped him. Suan worked most nights as a pole dancer at the Crazy Horse, and this was a standard form of communication with her. Suan never had to worry about when to work, for the Crazy Horse kept amenable 24x7 hours, seven days a week, with Sundays really hopping in all the booths. The real problem would come when the rare holiday would be universally observed by the Bay Area's notoriously skinflinty employers. That meant the warehouses would be closed as well as the packing plants and most of the coffeeshops, so they really might have to double up during those times. Occasional Quentin had managed to score the graveyard shift over at the Burger King in Fruitvale, about a forty minute walk, so he felt flush. Each by each they dropped their found lumber and plywood into a pile
in the back while Tipitina made her measurements. Bonkers chased Wickiwup
around the yellow piss pot and the brown covered pail while Johnny Cash
woofed encouragement and thumped his tail. Marsha came up the way, dragging a nine-foot long two by four and they all ran down to shoulder up the prize found down on the mudflats. Marlene and Marsha and the others rejoyced in their wealth as the sun shone down merrily upon the crew as it sawed and hammered with bricks and refurbished hammers. Pedro showed up with his monthly allotment of food stamps, which brought the crew great happiness. Andre strummed his guitar. Somebody opened a beer and passed it around. A hummingbird raided the lavendar plant. Life was good. Life in California. Just another day in paradise. That's the way it is on the Island, site of "graceful living". Have a great week.
APRIL 27, 2007 APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH
If April is cruel, then be happy its all over. Not so happy is EBMUD around here, for the usual gusty showers failed to swell the reservoirs from March onward and so the East Bay is looking at water rationing while the Sierra snowpack remains held in place by cool temps above 8,000 feet. Last report had Bishop (4,000 feet) still seeing subfreezing temps at night with daytime levels at the desert oasis hovering in the mid fifties. People are still driving up to Tahoe at this late date for last of the season ski runs over crinkle snow, all a-sparkle from re-freeze after partial melt, but still good for schussing the moguls. Meanwhile, we hear Spring finally has come to friends in Michigan and Minnesota in the form of daffy-down-dillies poking up through the crust laid down a week ago. Sound like they have had some Severe Weather in points East, however, and the State of Virginia has declared a State of Emergency after high winds wreaked havoc over there. Even Illinois got a taste of Golden State life with a moderate 4.0 shaker that left people wondering if the Creator is trying to tell them something about the state of the country. Meanwhile all the cherry blossoms here have passed their prime after a gorgeous riot that caused the neatniks to pull out their whiskers. Javier caught city crews lopping a number of these trees on Santa Clara amid a blizzard of falling petals, but forgot his camera that day. They were probably cursing through their beards, "Damn weeds!" Some people just got no appreciation. FURTHER TO FLY It's been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. Everyone has been scampering down to Pagano's Hardware to fetch trunkloads of manure in that annual vainglorious attempt to turn silt and sand into something that can support a bed of roses or asparagus. Javier has been knocking about the rising bean forest while Beth has been primping the primroses under the showing jasmine. The jasmine, planted some years ago by Julee in three-foot high versions, now stands seven feet high at the old fence and extends along to either side for another twenty-five feet or so. Julee is long gone, but the jasmine remains, causing Old John to curse at the nature of its falling flowers and its heady scent, which manage to traverse to the other side of the fence and afflict his sensibilities no end. In spring come the migrations of birds, and the vicissitudes of change. The high rents here, a product of pure greed and dour indifference to the hard effect of things happening in the economy upon the soft bodies of human beings, are causing some havoc. Saturday a group gathered to wish farewell to one of their own, for Solange is moving to Lausanne, where the rents are cheaper by far than this place. It is cheaper to live in Switzerland than here in the Bay Area. Think about it. Solange, a beautiful artist and author of some two novels, ten translations, innumerable articles and one lovely child, drifted about the room through a fog of languages, her hair sprinkled with confetti. Her landlord evicted the entire building of painters, sculptors and ceramists, ostensibly to renovate or sell or something, but really just to get more money, for a single woman living with a cat will pay only so much. We live in a time of upheavals and each new impossible day brings up yet another "unfortunate situation" that is "all too common." She ignored the advances of poor Domino, who attempted to make love to her with his thick Greek accent. "If you would wake in my bed to the sound of sparrows at sunrise, we know you would return soon. Or at least have something to remember," he said. "Embrace la Vie!" Been there, done that. She went over to where Paul and Marybeth were discussing "Reise nach Kafiristan" with Inge. Where is Kafiristan? And where is The Lucky Valley? The room pulsed with French, German, English, Arabic, Italian words, all blending together in a chamber orchestra, perhaps a little bit sad, for one of them was going away. Joanne's tall paintings hovered in the background, each vibrant with bursts and trajectories, bold black strokes and red splashes. In a bowl, floated the fire of a Rose of Jericho. One lives in a place for a number of years, and if denied the possibility of home, joins the great migration of die Statenlos, the gypsies, the Citizens of the World. Perhaps a bit sad, but what can one do? That's just the way it is my friends. Far away, in places like Wobegon and Yoknatapatawa and Chicago and Wichita Falls, Berne and Split, Nis and Dusseldorf, Plovdiv and Lodz, Basra, Qom, Medina, Lagos, Kinshasa, Djibouti, Madras, Lahore, Dar es Salaam, Kabul, Vientiane, Tientsin, Canberra the child tosses in bed, stares at the ceiling, knowing differences, longing for escape, not at home in house. To those few, rising up out of nests to fall out maybe, circle for a while and then join the vast migration, because burning sole or burning villiage never to return. "I tried to return to Copenhagen," Inge said with that slight elevation in inflection of the Danish. "I could not. I sold everything, took my child and tried to make it, but just could not. I had changed. So had Copenhagen. And so I came back here; this is my place." It may be said the Golden State is unusual in that even those who own property are just renting a spot for the time being. Nobody but the Miwok is really home. Everyone else is still looking for The Lucky Valley, and some wind up like AnneMarie Schwarzenbach in a dusty cul de sac. Or as Joni Mitchell once sang, "Where others found their paradise, others just came to harm. Oh Amelia; it was just a false alarm." Among those who make their living, or at least devote the greatest part of themselves to making things that have never been seen or heard before, the truth is that there is no abiding. We all are moving from camp to camp, exchanging small things in trade under the kafir's tents, trying to communicate with a deeply personal language that no one else will fully understand. And as for home? Nirgends. Kein Ort. Except in Community. Solange looked to the side, where a clay pot made by Sonya stood, calmly whirling with a gray, frothy swirl of leaves and sea-foam, a trick of the light and device, since the pot clearly stood motionless on the solid countertop. Yet everything in motion, all looking for the Lucky Valley. "And your daughter?" "She is in New York. Wants to get a Masters. Looking at a couple good universities in Greece. (Domino' s chest puffed out at this news.) I just wish she would find a decent boyfriend though." All the multiculti, international, artsy stuff comes down to this. Mom just wants her girl for find a nice guy. Its the same all over, even here. Even in Lausanne. As the guests all trickled out to their cars to drive down the little hill outside the Golden Gate, Solange stood removing confetti from her hair in front of the table where Joanne had hung a kid's model of a 747. She did not feel ebullient. "Is there nothing you have in mind for your last days here?" Domino said. Domino, a burly curly-hair bear of a man, really was not a bad fellow, despite his limitations of understanding -- a photographer, he focussed upon appearances, and soon would be off like a butterfly chasing some other bright flower. No. Not really. Public attractions and the sort of tourist things one never does when you live in a place. She was already moving, already gone. Mentally, she already stood on the platform. Einsteigen. Türen schliessen. Vorsicht beim Abfahrt. Soon enough Domino left. And Solange stood looking out the window at the lights of Tiburon below. In the far distance, a plane rose soundlessly through the streaked sky of clouds, departing for some unknown destination. That's the way it is on the Island. Have a great week. There may come a time Maybe you will find a love Effortless music from the Cameroons Sometimes I'll be walking down A recent loss of memory There may come a time A broken laugh a broken fever There may come a time ©Paul Simon
APRIL 20, 2008 THE STRENGTH TO PUSH LIKE SPRING This week's headline photo comes courtesy of Javier's garden as the last of the tulips expired once the odd cold front moved in here to nip the early buds of Spring.
TAXMAN Der Governator Arnold showed up here to pose for the photogs on the deck of the USS Hornet, a celebrated aircraft carrier that has been docked here and converted to a museum. Arnold was here ostensibly for an "economic conference" however no one could recall any economic conference ever being held on the deck of a museum air craft carrier. Unfortunately for Arnold's photo op, several thousand protesters showed up to angrily decry the school budget cuts planned for the upcoming budget. After his appearance before the Bay Area Council aboard the USS Hornet , Der Governator said he agrees with the protesters. But he said the crisis is caused by a budget system that is broken. In other news we understand a number of legislators have found a golden path to ease the Golden State's budget crisis, precipitated by the radical anti-revenue legislation called Proposition 13, which capped property taxes, ostensibly to protect individuals from extraordinary taxes chained to real market-rate property values. The problem, of course, was that property value was being artificially pumped above real value by rabid speculators fueling the land boom by "flipping" property with ever spiraling and inflated prices that soon exterminated any reasonable person's ability to purchase a home for the reasonable intent of actually living within the walls. Speculators began selling and buying only from speculators, leaving common folks to purchase with junk "variable rate" mortgages. Anyone who actually kept a home got punished by the escalating home values as properties got reassessed by cash-hungry counties. Instead of puncturing this bubble and its causes, Prop 13 folks capped the reassessments, effectively ensuring the bubble would swell even as the cash flow to the local governments and the State got choked. Now that the bubble has burst and everyone is clamoring to be reassessed here, the revenues from property taxes have dropped from ludicrously low to seriously endangering the commonweal. Essential services such as fire and police protection and -- as loudly demonstrated this past week -- schools are being shaved back to nothing. Enter split-roll taxation. Prop 13 remains a golden calf that cannot be touched by any politician with a brain and a concern for a future in politics. Nobody is going to vote for somebody who causes suffering to the grandmother that owns the old homestead. Commercial properties, however, are something distinctly unfuzzy and cool to touch. Some genius has suggested removing commercial buildings from the protections offered by Prop 13 and this beast is called "split roll taxation" and it promises to refill the Golden State's coffers by the billions if passed. There are a lot of issues and problems to be worked out between now and when this issue comes before voters. Most likely, due to Deep Pockets lobbying, the item will not appear on the June 3rd election here, but surely will in the welter of items that surely will claim attention for the Presidential Race this year. We have insider reports of several realtor groups meeting with State legislators already, expressing "concern" about this legislation. Among these was Mr. Falvey of Hanford Freund, one of Babylon's oldest property management firms. Mr. Falvey, understandably, stands firmly against split roll taxation. Perhaps Mr. Falvey could soften a bit on the usurious charges to the common renter so as to earn a more sympathetic ear in this space. But at present, we have no sympathy. None at all. HORSEMAN PASS BY Houston Jones, our local band faves, will perform live on KFOG's morning show on April 25th at 7am. The following evening the jovial boys will do a special Benefit for the Schools at Noe Valley Ministry. Joe Bob says, "Check it out." Illnesses and such have put a kink in the usual frenetic schedule of Island-Life reviews, but we are looking to get back in the swing of things before long. Word of mouth has it that Eddie Vedder's solo shows here caused ladies to swoon and gentlemen to scream. Feist is coming to the venerable Greek soon enough. May 15th, Hot Tuna shows up at the Great American Music Hall, which is just the right size for Jorma to fill the place with sound. We slide into the post-season for theatre doldrums, hearing that Carrie Fisher bombed at Berkeley Rep in a dishy monolog that required people to care about folks who own multiple heated swimming pools. Shaw broke hearts with ACT and the Rep putting on undistinguished shows. A visitor from New York put on a multi-character one-man thing that has become by now old hat and the substance apparently complained about Californians coming to New York. Well, we won't do that again. The Rep lets things die a proper death with a completely irrelevant mini-opera by Mozart, perhaps in an effort to recapture old-guard subscribers with "safe theatre" and "old chestnuts". Figaro? Yuck. Upside is that Les Waters and Mary Zimmerman will team up again at the Rep in the next season. And the inflammatory Martin McDounagh returns with his own Irish cynicism and violent images. Odds are the Rep's next season will be a good one. WE CAN'T MAKE IT HERE ANYMORE It's been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. That brief spell of sultry weather is just a memory as some kind of cold front moved in to chill things enough to plant broccoli early. Probably be a bad idea. This is the first week of post-tax nausea, and we do hope all of you are recovering nicely. As for most of us, that $600 "rebate" will go ploomp! right into the tax fund to take care of 2008's extractions. Nice stimulus that was. All gone and gas at $4.08 around here. Lionel has been doing brisk business over at the Pampered Pup on Park Street, for in hard times, a hot dog is a meal that can't be beat. In fact, he is doing so well that the ninety-nine cent dog and chili special down the street at the Wienerschnitzel Hut barely crimps his style. Joanne came in the other day with Wally, trying to get him to bite on a business proposal for a fashion outlet in the old burned out Safeway building. Wally, whose idea of fashion is a clean T-shirt and decent workboots to wear down to the shooting range on Davis Street, never had been concerned about fashion at all until he glommed onto Joanne stalking about the burned out building at Southshore. It might not have been fashion, but something about Joanne's six-inch stiletto boots rising up to a lanky frame and a pretty face framed in neat curls caused the sap, or something, to rise in old Wally. Truth was, Joanne was quite a sexy number to have gotten Wally all googly-eyed, for Wally had sworn off women ever since his ex-wife had poured bondo into the fuel tank of his prized Evenrude motor. And into the bilge pump of his boat. Wally never could figure how such a little woman could have hoisted about thirty-five pounds of the stuff over the gunwale. "Musta really pissed her off," had been Eugene's only comment. "Shoulda stayed off that gal from Chico." Yes, Wally did have a wandering eye, which age had served only to hone to a finer appetite even though the heart medicine he took made everything pretty much theoretical these days anyway. They found themselves on Park Street as Joanne wanted to scope out the shopping district. The Island shopping district is a strip about three blocks long and half a block wide, "anchored at one end by the Slut Hut Javarama across the street from the fire department, and by the Vietnamese Emerald Garden at the other near the drawbridge, where starving jazz musicians would attack Coltrane with some seriousness and dedication without pay on Saturday nights. As for the Pampered Pup, she found the big doggie head over the entrance to be positively retro. It also had the advantage of being on the corner so that she could evaluate the clothing coming and going. Wally's suggestion, an intimation that he had money to invest began to evaporate into a thin mist of an idea, much like Joanne's interest in Wally, which had extended only so far as the perceived desire to make money. She shrugged. At least she saw what she had come to see. That drawbridge meant that no way would throngs of the hoi polloi come over from Babylon across the water loaded with the zingy anticipation of Something Really New and catwalk dreams, no way would such ever step elegantly out of stretch limos, flicking ermines and diamonds as they strolled through a dream of a neon-lit downtown enhanced by the refurbished Paramount Theatre. Not on this Island, now or ever. So it goes. Just push disappointment aside and drive on to the next thing. Wally, stumbling over an invitation to check out the Old Same Place Bar broke into her thoughts and she turned the kindest eyes ever laid on the man, who surely never before deserved this much consideration. "Wally," she said, resting a lovely hand be-ringed with sparkling clear stones on his knee. "Wisdom lies in the abnegation of desire. C'est triste, n'est pas? Goodbye." And she left. "Nice bumper on that one," Lionel commented as he took up the baskets. "Lionel," Wally said, and sighed. "I am fifty-five years old and today I just learned that wisdom lies in the abnegation of desire." Thats the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
APRIL 13, 2008 LAND OF THE BOTTOM LINE This weeks headline item is not a photo but a video that comes courtesy of Debra Katz in the City. Jose in the copyroom does not think its funny, but guys in his position tend to be touchy about a lot of things, standing around in the lee of the building, smoking angry cigarettes and plotting to kill their bosses according to some manual by Franz Fanon. Anyway, there may be some truth in this one. (Click to play in Windows Media Player)
In a very unfunny associated video is a speech by Ohio Congresswoman Marci Kaptur on YouTube. This comes courtesy of Chad, our in-house HTML coder. It basically concerns the sets of agreements that look to capitalize upon NAFTA which are summarized by some as the North American Union. Dick Cheney calls it all a big deception. He should talk about deception, that guy. Http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAs7XZVgKhI APRIL IS THE CRUELEST MONTH In some good news for a change we snagged this latest info across the AP wire regarding the new representative for the 12th Congressional District. Given the Green Candidate couldn't take the pole position, this is the best we could do. Former state lawmaker Jackie Speier avoided a runoff for a San Francisco Bay area congressional seat Tuesday, winning a special election to fill the vacancy created by the death earlier this year of fellow Democrat Tom Lantos. Speier had nearly 78 percent of the vote with 71 percent of precincts reporting. She needed more than 50 percent to avoid a June 3 runoff election. We remember here as a dark-haired woman of short stature but a firm and determined look.
The victory will send Speier to Washington representing the same congressional seat once held by her boss, former Rep. Leo Ryan. Speier was an aide to Ryan and accompanied him on a fact-finding mission to Guyana in 1978 to investigate claims that cult leader Jim Jones was holding followers against their will. As the team was returning to their planes at the Guyana airstrip, they were attacked. Jackie fell with several bullet wounds to her back and lay for hours on the tarmac next to the bodies of her former boss, Ryan and the news cameraman. One plane managed to escape after the pilot fought off one of the armed attackers, leaving her behind on the airstrip. She was not rescued until the following morning when the Guyana army flew in to find her and a couple others the sole survivors of a massive bloodletting that killed nearly one thousand people. She went on from this rough introduction to political life to serve as assembly representative for San Mateo County, pitching a nearly successful bid for lieutenant governor in 2006. The 12th Congressional District had been represented for the last 27 years by Lantos, who died in February. Speier will hold the seat for the rest of the year. Lantos, the 79-year-old former chairman of the House Foreign Affairs Committee who was the only Holocaust survivor to serve in Congress, had intended to seek a 15th term. He announced in January he had cancer of the esophagus and would not run for reelection. He endorsed Speier before he died. While she holds the seat for the rest of the year, Speier will have to run again during the June 3 Democratic primary. If she survives that, as expected, she will run for the full two-year term in the November general election. Her special election win Tuesday also means Speier will be seated as a Democratic superdelegate, giving her a say in the presidential nominating contest between Sens. Barack Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton. Speier told AP she is a Clinton supporter. The 12th Congressional District includes southwestern San Francisco and
most of neighboring San Mateo County. Democrats account for more than
half the voters in the district, which has more independents than Republicans. OUR HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCK Javier was the one who got the idea. Even the Editor was impressed by the boy's gumption after the Landlord upped the rent yet again after six years in a row. A quick review of rental trends revealed that this area has seen a spike of rent-raises in the past three years after a period of declining extractions. The aggregate increase has been around 7.85%, whereas we have seen 25% and higher around here where rent control does not yet exist on the Island. That day is coming, however. Javier had this novel idea of simply calling to ask why the rent was going up. Especially in view of the fact no major repairs had been done, many items remained broken and nonfunctional and various amenities had been removed from service, such as the bicycle locker. This is how the conversation went, with HF representing the property management firm woman. HF: Hello, this is Jennifer. J: Hello. I understand I got a rent increase. HF: That's right. Everybody got one. J: Why is that? HF: Beg pardon? J: I got a rent increase. Why is that? HF: Oh. . . well . . . expenses. There are expenses and there is rent and that is all there is. J: What kind of expenses? HF: Well . . . building repairs of course. J: You mean repairs you PLAN on doing. Because you haven't done any for quite a while you know. HF: Ah, well, that is the owners. Some owners don't want to spend any money. It's a matter of point of view. They are just different. And the rent goes up every year. J: Why? HF: Beg pardon? J: Why does it go up every year? HF: It just does. It goes up every year automatically. J: Why? HF: Beg pardon? Nevermind. It goes up every year to match market rate. J: Well, what's "market rate"? The folks behind us pay 500 less and over by Park Avenue there is an entire block of studios and one bedrooms going for 575. That is a tony area you know. How do you determine "market rate?" HF: Well, its the area. Thats it. That's why it goes up. J: But what about this building deserves that? We have no swimming pool, no view of the beach, no special amenities. A Baptist church operating out of a storefront down the block is the longest running business there plus a couple of bars. A woman was held up by gunpoint on this very block recently. Not to mention the brutal gang murder down the way. And this building has pretty lousy plumbing you have to admit. HF: Its an old building . . . J: Yes, over 80 years. HF: And there are things the owners don't want to pay for. . . J: So why is the rent going up? HF: Expenses. Property tax. Thats a big one. J: Building is assessed at 1.3 million (rather low, don't you think FOR THE AREA?) and your annual taxes are around 20 thousand, which is a bit less than one month of rent here. There is no mortgage as the building is fully paid for. And one of your own employees bragged the building was making money hand over fist way back when the rent for a studio was 450. Now you are charging over a thousand. HF: Its expenses. Garbage collection. Water. Insurance. Insurance is a really big one. . . J: Insurance was tanking recently, in fact. One of the tenants works for an insurance company told me so . . . HF: Its market rate. J: So I rent at a rate I am not allowed to negotiate, then the rent goes up, meaning that the rent I am forced to pay because it is claimed "market rate" becomes market rate by definition and so market rate becomes the rent which becomes the market rate which becomes the rent as it all loops around. That is very pretty. HF: Do you have any other questions? J: The truth is, you just want more money. HF: Well, yes. Isn't that obvious? J: The state of the housing industry with its mortgage crisis has demonstrated that clearly. It seems you have all wanted more money for a long time. HF: Well, if you have no more questions, then good day. J: I just want to know why the rent is going up. HF: Good bye. BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN/ BEAUTIFUL RIVER The Olympic torch raced through here in a way that confused and bamboozled only those unused to the general run-of-the-mill antics of totalitarian regimes everywhere down through the ages. In a stroke of political genius, Mayor Gavin shunted and shifted the torch through a bizarre and essentially concealed as well as significantly aborted torch run, with the torch disappearing into warehouse buildings only to be spirited via vans to secret locations and finally to a bus that sent this albatross down to SFO, turning the whole affair into the obvious charade it was from the beginning. Gavin had the significant no win situation of being given the honor of being the only US city to host the Olympics torch run, with the equally onerous charge of handling a public relations stunt by a viciously cruel regime of Chinese bastards currently stomping all over innocent Tibet while badly handling any number of human rights issues within the boundaries of their own country. In the end, his main concern was that nobody get killed, and in this, he succeeded well. In a free country, such an event would have proceeded despite protests because we welcome protest as expression of free speech and difference of opinion. In a free society, you do not have plainclothes thugs shadowing the proceedings so as to yank out any unseemly appearance, such as a Tibetan flag. Tibet is not and never has been a part of China, it possesses its own language and its own culture, and its occupation is a blatant slap in the face of democracy and anybody who imagines freedom is something important. NAVIGATING BY THE STARS AT NIGHT It's been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set on the edge of the San Francisco Bay, a beautiful jewel set within the turquoise of the many-storied Sea. A massive heat wave came down with ferocity, virtually enforcing Spring like a strong-armed policeman with extra force. This happened even as report came to us of friends digging out from a sudden blizzard of some ten inches in Minnesota, which completely eradicated onset of Spring to all the weary Lutheran bachelor farmers on the plains. Almost all the freesias have been knocked down, and the crocuses have all croaked, while the early tulips remain standing in their insolent pride, glowing in the afternoon sun. As the sun superheated the balmy air, Rachel and Beth ran barefoot through the sprinklers, laughing like little girls as they sprinkled waterdrops from the tips of their hairdos. Large numbers of BBQ and similar events erupted all over the Bay Area, even as friends in Minnesota reported nearly a foot of snowfall that advanced on the yet tender Spring in a great blizzard, not like a German Panzer Division crushing the entire State. Mr. Cribbage has strung an improbable net of webbing all about his property so as to keep out crows, or so he says, and all the neighbors are talking about it. Mr. Howitzer has taken to birding, but armed with a 12 gauge shotgun gotten from Big 5 Sporting Goods as complement to his binocs. Out for "corbids", he says. Nevermind. Mrs. Blather has been seen strewing sunflower seeds laced with aspic near aviaries, and so has nearly gotten herself arrested. This all seems to be related to an unfortunate incident during the last bridge club meeting in which the cheeselog and the Madeira were utterly ruined. She did not run through the sprinklers, shod or barefoot, for she was a serious woman with Responsibilities and so she sat with Mrs. Pescatore and Medea from Harbor Bay, getting blotto on the verandah by means of mojitos served up regularly by Jason, Medea's footman. Over at the clubhouse of the Native Sons of the Golden West, David Phipps and Javier have been setting up wire traps to catch raccoons, their intention being to transport the creatures out to the wilds of the East Bay Preserve. They had great joy setting these things all around the clubhouse, well baited with ears of corn, which raccoons are known to find irresistible. There may have been some kind of attachment to heritage in all their activity, for David's people hearkened back to the time of covered wagons crossing the Humboldt Sink during the early days before the Gold Rush. In any case, Miranda had a fit and cursed roundly them and the world for swiping vegetables meant for the Sunday Poetry Slam BBQ out of the crisper . This, of course, being National Poetry Month, the Native Sons had decided to host a Slam right there on Sunday, complete with ribs and beer and Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Corso, and an open mike. When they went by to check on their trapline the following day, they found no raccoons, but a powerful stench wafting from one of the traps where a furious black and white creature pounded his paws on the wire floor of his cage, enticing Heroditus Google -- a joyfully bounding black Labrador -- into running right up to greet this new friend. "Heroditus! NOOOOOOOO!" said David. Heroditus really loved people and animals of all kinds and dearly loved to socialize and hump the leg of anybody or anything that would remain stationary for it, but the skunk would have none of it, for the skunk found himself in a situation he did not like at all and he detested dogs in particular. So he lifted his tail and got Heroditus really good between the eyes. Heroditus, in an agony of acrid eyeburn, came running right back to his master for a warm hug only to get a faceful of bloody mary, which really put the poor lab out of sorts as the lime went bouncing down the walk. "You'll need a lot more tomato juice than that", said Javier. "Eewww!" David got Heroditus on a leash by using one of Roberta's hankies dipped in vinegar as a breath mask. He then took Heroditus out to Wally's rowboat, got the dog between the thwarts and after a stern command of "Stay!", he pushed the boat off from shore. Holding the tow rope he walked the boat around to the point of the jetty and there he staked him down. "Stay!" repeated David, before walking back up to the clubhouse, leaving the perplexed dog in the rowboat, floating some yards from shore. There remained the problem of how to handle the skunk. It being a weekend, Animal Control remained unavailable. The animal, being factually under control, outside human habitation, and in no danger to himself or to people proved not to be an emergency for the County Vector Abatement. "If he were a mosquito or a brown moth, things would be different," said the Operator. Nevertheless, holding a BBQ anywhere in the vicinity of the creature remained impossible. "You know what will happen when the Abodanza kids get here." Javier said. David groaned, remembering the fiasco of the Easter Peeps and other disasters of equal proportion. So something about the skunk needed to happen and right away. That's how they glommed onto the idea of dragging the cage some distance from the clubhouse. Javier got a boathook from Pedro's fishing boat and this they tied to a rope which then got fastened to Javier's pickup truck towring. The business end they tossed several times at the cage, missing a couple, wacking the cage a few, entirely enraging the captured animal all the while just as it had begun to settle down to eat the corn so thoughtfully provided earlier. The skunk screamed and hissed and made a fair amount of noise while a perfectly visible cloud of gas developed over the area. Finally they got the thing set real good and with the skunk emitting all kinds of protest, Javier ran to start up his truck. Things went pretty smoothly with Javier motoring at about three miles per hour for about fifty yards when the next problem arose. Where exactly to take this skunk, for the truck was limited in its progress to the available roadway and they couldn't just leave a caged animal in the middle of the road. So David, being real good at math, calculated the trajectories and everything before setting up a pole there on the curb. Javier backed up, then gunned the engine so that just when the line went taut, he hauled on the steering wheel left then right, which caused the cage to go airborne. The whiplashing line caught the pole and the cage, skunk inclusive, went sailing over the green there beside the Marina and everything went swimmingly except for one detail. Neither one of them had factored in the hook's inability to let go unless at the most inopportune moment. That inopportune moment happened about fifty feet from the edge of Crown Drive. The cage sailed free and with a remarkable parabola up and, inevitably, down into the open convertible compartment of Mel Grumpus where it broke apart in the lap of the driver as he was extolling the luscious potential of fixed rate rents on the Island, only recently accomplished, to a bevy of blond Realtors and land speculators of a type that is peculiar and pernicious to Northern California. The skunk howled, and did its thing, adding a bit of scared scat to the emissions. The Realtors howled and erupted from the car. Mel howled and flung the skunk from his torn and soiled lap. We are happy to relate that no more harm came to the tormented skunk, who headed for the trees, never to be seen again. That day, a contemplated 25 story high-rise on Ballena Isle was nipped effectively in the bud, and a number of Realtors went around after this event for some time accompanied by the odor that so effectively evokes rampant greed and corruption. It was some time before anyone remembered Heroditus, who endured a series of bathings in tomato juice, vinegar, Febreeze and gasoline before anyone would let him come within ten feet of them. And it was he who suffered the most of all in all his innocence. That is the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
APRIL 6, 2008 WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE This week's headline photo comes from Javier's garden out back once again, for the theme is Spring and the last of the Freesias are still popping out there after the last rain.
EVERYBODY DESERVES MUSIC That impish feller from Pearl Jam, Eddie Vedder is coming to our humble East Bay Zellerback for two shows this week. The 15th Annual KFOG KABOOM is happening in the same old place down by the piers with Los Lobos, Collective Soul and Matt Nathanson headlining before the fireworks that tend to outshine July 4th in quality. Tickets for this formerly free event are $15 bucks, which remains fairly reasonable in the Age of Price Gouge. Upcoming acoustic shows of note listed as follows: JACKIE GREENE -April 10 - Fillmore That Blame Sally show with Incendio ought to be a firecracker worth paying some attention to, as Incendio tends to live up to their name with Latin-inflected fire. Blame Sally seems a bit on a roll as they headline the Kate Wolf Music Festival talking place in late June. Latest scut has blues newbie Jackie Greene joining the survivors of the Greatful Dead in an odd combo. Jackie Greene, he of the post Gen X generation, has reported that he had no idea who the Greatful Dead were when Phil Lesh called him in person. Ought to be at least interesting. Had a recent look at "Running on Empty" and realized that this year puts Jackson Browne at well over 30 years of road touring over the top. Hard times and troubles and bad decisions have happened aplenty since 1977, but the man is still alive. Lord knows the boy has made some serious mistakes in life, but no one knows what terrible retribution the dark angels have exacted during the dim watches of the night, with the clock ticking and the moon's shadow tracing the bruised tree branches over the years and no one really knows what goes on in the depths of a man's soul when given over to self examination. If given over. If no one else should comment on these things, then let it be Island-Life, for media criticism is part of our task and our charge. And even the best loved performer must answer to certain acts. If not to us, then to the world. And especially to himself. Will the girl of "cowgirl eyes" ever rise above history? Can an Abuser ever gain Redemption? In the distance, some Indigo Girls song wavers across the way. Or a plea from that guy who used to front the band called The Eagles. Forgiveness. Forgiveness . . . . Also upcoming are several festivals in the Sierra foothills and the Trinity Alps, where Michael Franti will be filing the ears with joy while the ganja feeds the head. ELEPHANT BAR AND GRILL Dropped into the Elephant Bar and Grill this Friday after one of those terrible medical procedures that leave you wishing for several stiff ones lined up at the bar right afterwards. The EBG happens to squat right there in that improbable collection of chic and coutour on the border of Ikea's terrible empire in Emeryville, a totally manufactured arrangement of shops and wierd open spaces that ensure rapid movement rather than leisurely dawdling. Could be the gale force winds that whip through the area as well as the bass-enhanced music that implies a live band somewhere. In any case, the parking is reasonable, given that one has no choice other than to use the garage, and the Elephant proved to rise above the worst expectations of MallAmerica. The restaurant itselt is part of a chain, and therefore worth regarding somewhat askance. The atmosphere is that of UFO Abduction in the circular bar area with its lavendar lighting, and of English Gentleman's Club in the dining area, with its life-sized replica of a bush elephant emerging from the palm fronds. Okay, so its kitschy and theme-oriented. Done with that. The real surprise was in the excellent service - smack fast on Friday afternoon -- and in the above average quality of food preparation as well as realistic liquor policies (no more than one drink at a time in front of any one single customer). This drink policy bespoke a sense of responsiblity in this establishment hard by the Maze interchange that many restaurant/bars would do well to emulate and we applaud the sensible approach to liquour held here. We chose the Vietnamese spring rolls as appetizer while plowing through a couple of well-iced mojitos and found the rolls to be light, tasty and well complemented by two zesty dipping sauces. One of our company, disbelieving possibility in a freeway-based eatery, chose the philly cheesesteak with ceasar salad and the other opted for a full blackened catfish dinner with braised veggies. The catfish turned up surpisingly delicate, flaky and perfectly done with a homemade remoulade cup that had a nice little zing in the nostrils unlike the more common mayo and relish blend found in lesser venues. We had lucked out and the man who chose the philly sandwich had made a relatively poor choice, although that sandwich did appear well appointed with peppers, not too many onions and a merciful lack of grease. The veggies were perfectly done, with a nice blend of zucchini, broccoli, and other greens, all well warmed and crunchy and delicately seasoned. We gandered at several salads floating by, heaped with all sorts of well-prepared and well-thought toppings, all of which looked very flavorful indeed and realized that the local proprietor had devised a sort of diamond in the rough in this location. Our waitress was helpful with things unfamiliar and spot on in her suggestions as well as remarkably quick to respond at all times. We give this restaurant four stars and hearty well-wishes of good success.
PSA Got a note from that mellifluously named Lisa Bullwinkel (lady, don't ever change your name!) who announces the availability of free booth space to qualifiying non-profits at this year's July 4th event down by the Berkeley Marina. "A free 10x10 information booth space for non-profit organizations is available at the 4th of July celebration at the Berkeley Marina. Please send an email to LBullwinkl@aol.com for an application or call 510/548-5335." The south shore of the Berkeley Marina at the bottom of University Ave. is filled with great stuff to do all day. Decorate your bike, trike, stroller, or even your head with recyclables at Madame Ovary's booth. Adventure Playground, always a favorite, is open 11am-8pm. Sign up for an old-fashioned sack race or get your face painted. Try the giant slide or splash in the water at the beach! Plenty of fun stuff for adults, too! No need to cook - lots of international food booths. Live entertainment including Taiko drummers, belly dancers, & steel pans from noon until 9PM on the main stage. There's art & craft booths, massages, free sailboat rides from 1-4pm, dragon boat rides from 2-6pm, and much more including the grand fireworks off the end of the Berkeley Pier at 9:30pm. Free admission. Alcohol-free event. Free valet bicycle parking. No cars after 7pm. Sponsored by the City of Berkeley. Produced by Another Bullwinkel Show 510/548-5335 or visit www.ci.berkeley.ca.us. The event always is well attended by thousands, as early attendence and early parking ensures good position to observe fireworks over the Bay. In other Bullwinkel events we report something happening out at the Berkeley City College. BERKELEY - Students, community members, their families, friends, and neighbors are invited to an afternoon of fun at Berkeley City College's Community Open House, Noon to 5 p.m., Sunday, April 27. Join in arts, humanities, drama, dance, music, and science activities. Learn about one of California's first fully “green” community college campuses and how to get the money you need to finance a college education. It's free, open to the public and located at 2050 Center St., half a
block west of the downtown Berkeley BART station. Dedications of the Susan Almon Duncan Library and the Jerry L. Adams
Learning Resources Center are also part of the event. Duncan served 17
years on the Peralta Community College District's Board of Trustees and
was instrumental in making possible the college's downtown Berkeley site.
Adams, a much-loved mathematics instructor, taught for more than 35 years
at the college, and influenced thousands of student lives. Located half a block from BART and AC Transit connections, and one-and-one-half blocks from U.C., Berkeley City College opened its doors in August 2006. The two-year old facility hosts programs and classes in art and multimedia arts, business and information technology, liberal arts and the sciences, languages and distance education, to name a few. FIRST FRIDAYS ON THE ISLAND Roving Correspondent Strange de Jim reports that First Fridays was packed over at the Frank Bette Center, far more than in years past and the plein air photo competion has produced some real treasures. No report on the recent concert by Wake the Dead over there at the new arts venue, but did hear that many balked at the rather steep ticket price that night. Anybody realize a recession is going on? WHATS GOING ON Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The mornings begin with glowering, heavy lidded clouds and chill airs, giving away to sporadic dapples of sunshine, promising yet more delights forthcoming in a few weeks or so. Our courier pigeons and messenger hamsters have been returning with dour expressions from Minnesota, slinging their spotted and mud-encrusted packs onto the floor with irritation at having to engage in such a failure of a mission even during wintertime, so as to petition the Mayor of Lake Wobegon for Sister City status, only to have Hizzoner abruptly denigrate the very idea of sisterhood to any person or any thing. Such a thing is both inflation and complexity -- both concepts foreign to decent Lutherans, the Mayor was reported to have said. No sight is more pathetic than a disappointed hamster. Terrible and rueful is the wrath of the Island hamster in wintertime, o yes. By the light of the sputtering flourescent tube in the offices of Island-Life gathered the surviving messengers. Februs, most noble of messenger hamsters stood there among them, firelight shadows illuminating his august hamster face and the dark bodies of exhausted messenger pigeons strewn about him as he declaimed, "What tho the field be lost? All is not lost -- the unconquerable will, and study of blogging, immortal verbosity, and courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome? That glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace with suppliant knee, and deify his power Who, from the terror of this arm, so late doubted his Norwegian Heritage -- that were low indeed; That were an ignominy and shame beneath this downfall . . .". So spake th' apostate Februs, though in pain, vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair. Februs, get a grip, dude. Just because the Mayor of Lake Wobegon dismissed a bunch of snow-spattered messengers from California is no reason to get all bipolar. There's plenty of other Sister City possibilities. Soon as the snow clears, off to Bloom County you go . . . . Of comfort, no man speak. Februs said. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps by in a petty pace from day to day, 'til all our yesterdays have lighted the way to dusty death. Out out brief candle (sniff!) . . . Hey, said the Chief Editor, coming out of his office. I hear Garisson Keillor has a new thing out for English Majors! Anybody want to do a review? At this news, Februs screamed and tore at the hairs upon his head, promising dire hamster revenge. Not on my dime, you don't, said the Editor. Get back to work. O this shall not end well. Far off across the estuary, the midnight throughpassing train howled,
its red eye gleaming as it wound its way like a great worm through the
darkness of the dismal Situation waste and wild, a Dungeon horrible, on
all sides round as one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames That's just the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
MARCH 30, 2008 TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL
This week's headline photo comes courtesy of the WindowsSecrets newsletter, a computer-industry regular that is the outgrowth of the old Langalist, featuring news and info relating to computers and computer news, a normally rather dry topic attended to largely by math tutors and geeks. The subscription list amounts to some .5 million paying subscribers worldwide and Fred, being a man of sturdy heart, as well as high intelligence, figured, well, with so many well-heeled folks on line, surely there must be a way to put all of these resources to good use. Enter the Fred Langa Sponsorship program, a program that seeks to put a little of these resources to good work, assisting kids in third world countries who otherwise would not have a chance of a snowball in hell making anything of their situation. And this month we present, in Fred's own words, the newest scholarship adoptee. "Each month, we send a full year of sponsorship to a different child. In the month of March 2008, Souleymane is the beneficiary of your contributions. He is seven years old and lives in Kapala, Sikasso Cercle, Mali. A landlocked country in western Africa, Mali ranks 174th out of 177 on the U.N.'s list of developing nations. Your support is helping to fund a school health and nutrition program managed by Save the Children, a respected nongovernmental organization, in Souleymane's community." more info: Its a harsh world and getting harsher with each and every terrible dawn, but its nice to hear about somebody doing something, no matter how small, to try to leave this planet a little better than how they found it. EVERY NIGHT NOW Illness and in-house malaise have put off a fair number of reviews during the past few weeks, but musical life does continue. KFOG has announced its annual Kaboom and there is the outrageously priced Outlands Festival with starters at $225 smackeroos for a stellar lineup of artists, to be sure. But man! Over two hundred dollars just for entry and no food! Whats up with this gouge? We say, don't matter if the Boss boxes U2's Bono -- the price aint worth the show to mill about with thousands of the Hoi Polloi. Someplace this kind of thing needs to stop. Where is angry Patti Smith when we need her now? In more reasonable venues well worth attending, we note the New Orleans Jazz Fest again taking flight from April 25 to May 4th. Don't matter if you can't swing the Fairgrounds, filled with thousands of milling hoi polloi, etc. The entire town packs for a great time in all venues during the Fest. For the unrepenetent punks, Antiflag holds forth at the Fillmore this April 7th. All of us are looking forward to a return of Mark Knopfler in support of his new CD "Kill to Get Crimson"; that oughta be a tasty one this summer. Nothing appearing on the radar as yet, however, although the Waifs will be knocking around here in the smaller venues like the Independent and the Napa Opera House in April. Summer will wait until June 27th and the Kate Wolf Memorial Festival, which has attracted a nice notoriety for all the music that happens off-stage in and around the tents in Laytonville. Special to note: Michelle Shocked, who has undergone a significant seachange in personal style worth noting, will appear at the Swedish American Hall. Ms. S. is quite a shock -- pun unintended -- to watch live, so we endorse this one heavily as one that will be the show to unite hardcore punks and folkies as well as blues enthusiasts, which is no small order to accomplish. Also we are reminded the various High Sierra festivals are coming up, including Strawberry and the World Music Fest, a sort of Ragamuffins thing but under the stars and in tents in the foothills. There is no excuse to avoid good music this interim season, for supporting live music is the best thing you can do to aid the ailing planet. Live music supports the local economy, feeds starving artists, cures all manner of social ills, solves inner-city problems, patches the ozone, cools global warming, heals chilblains, the gout, syphilis, irritated bowel, bad brains, sour dispostion, nervous jumping up and down, and bad breath and besides, it is good for you. So support local live music wherever you go, live long, and thrive. FLY ON SWEET ANGEL Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown, set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The moody weather has yielded to distinctly cold sunshine and bright red tulips firing up out of the sandy soil here like so many impetuous and difficult to restrain children. Other parts of the country remain drownded and snowbound under Winter's slowly releasing grip. All along the low farmhouses of Western Massachusetts, the snow slumps against the windowsills and postholes around the parkinglot dumpsters where Fanny has let her pooch do ya-ya during the long icy winter. Spring shall reveal small brown surprises that shall irk the Property Management Man. Meanwhile, the northern lakes of Minnesotta are showing blue patches and suspiciously dark shoreline edges and nobody dares drive out to spin donuts for all the fish houses have disappeared overnight. Here at Island Life, we have been hard hit by an exhorbitant rent increase, which irks all the more in that this enterprise is not exactly a financially remunerative situation, hence the situation is dire and the Editor was seen striding up and down, tearing out his few remaining grey hairs in great distress while numerous copyboys ran hither and thither in much disarray. California is going through yet again another spate of convulsive wishful thinking in which those who can make life really miserable for the majority in fond hope that this misery will propel vast numbers of folks to leave the Golden State, thereby leaving that much more available to those who remain. This never works, of course, for the miserable simply make the lives of those around them that much more miserable that they feel better all the same and so nothing ever changes, except that the Miserable gradually morph by degrees into the Horrible and the whole place begins to justify everything Woody Allen has ever claimed or stated about how the world works or fails to do so effectively. Eventually, California will turn into an eight hundred mile long version of Manhattan, and its chief export shall be heaps and heaps of yet more misery enough to make Calcutta look like promising real estate. The only positive thing here shall be that all property agents in the land shall be castrated or disemboweled or both on a great day of reckoning and many shall rejoice then at this improvement in the economy. Forget all that for now. The time has come to talk about Mr. Howitzer. In the late evening, Mr. Howitzer sets out to walk his dog, Paddleboat, from his manse on Grand Street, through the iron gate, past the Chinese lions and out to the street, to turn left down to the Strand. Too often we speak of our Islander with fondness and affection, accusing them of minor peccadillos, but otherwise upholding their essentially Californian qualities of ernestness, forthrightness, directness, generosity, and honesty. A native Californian can be many things, positive and negative, but he is seldom an uptight snerd of the sort so often found east of the Mississippi river. Let us now discuss Mr. Howitzer, he of the Boston Howitzers who sailed around the Horn in 1852 to ensconce themselves here by making all of the right choices and thoroughly exploiting anyone remotely weaker than themselves, beginning with the Miwok, the Ohlone, the Mandan and the Yurok, to whom they sold inferior blankets and knives in exchange for good foodstuffs and valuable information. Lemuel Howitzer obtained foothold on the Island by leasing land from Mr. Augenbaugh, which the enterprising Lemuel subdivided and sold to unsuspecting newcomers at great profit until the scheme was discovered subsequent to a fourth-hand sale somewhere down the line. Lemuel offered, just to help smooth things over, to buy property he had already sold at a bit less than the value. At the end of all the brough-haha, Lemuel ended up with much of the land back in his possession and a tidy sum in the bank. Thus have the Howitzers proceded ever since. From selling water rights to rivers never seen and never purchased, to building dams where no dams were wanted or needed, the Howitzers were there first among the best. Sam Howitzer took advantage of this family heritage to invest in real estate and many were the parks and green spaces converted to useful townships under his command. The Fosters, who created the abomination known as Foster City could not have build a stick on stone without his help and so his retirement was assured at an early age. On Sunday evenings he was wont to walk his dog down to Mr. Cribbage's place where Cribbage kept a group of low slung Eastern-style bungalows that he let for rent to what seemed to be an unceasing series of low-lifes and improbables due to his atrocious lack of judgement in character. If a meth addict or pusher or wife beater happened to glom onto Mr. Cribbage, he was sure to chose them for all their manly qualities and their gruff manner, as opposed to ability to pay and keep the peace. As a result, Mr. Cribbage was a singular failure as a landlord, although he, like Howitzer had inherited his millions, and he was made of such a sour constitution that of all his pounds of wealth not a sou gave him the slightlest enjoyment. Each day, he patrolled his property with an industrial weed eradicator and a brush shaped similar to his own blonde moustache so as to dispel the slightest sully of natural nature upon his nature, even as transvestites battled drug pushers in and just outside his tawdry apartments with high pitched shrill voices, cursing as he sprayed the moss and the weeds, full of high opinions and the ruinous Democratic Party. A few people thought he might be of Dutch or German extraction, going way back for there was a Cribbage who had run a bratwurst stand for years down by the 'Stick baseball stadium. There, in Cribbage's dingy rooms, under the immense figure of a mounted ram's head, Mr. Howitzer sat with Mrs. Blather, of the San Francisco Blathers, another of the Old Families with attachments to Stanford and Lowell High School and all the best Establishments, including (at least one) marriage to the Aliotos and even more besides. This knot formed the nexus of a group that gathered each Sunday so as to decry the Decay of the West, lament the rise of Gay Culture in connection with rampant bi-lingualism, and deplore the state of Public Education as well as the shirking of Personal Responsibility and over attachment to New Deal things like Entitlements during a game of bridge. Mrs. Angela Pescatore filled out the club accompanied by her poodle, Saxon This is all to say that sometimes California is quite a mixture of things. Saxon greated Paddleboat, Mr. Howitzer's new rottweiler, in the usual manner. Howd'yado. Butt sniff. Fine. Sniff. Fine butt! Yes! Sniff! Turn about. Sniff again. Tasty butt. Sniff. And then to their respective places went the hounds, each at the feet of their respective owners, all social niceties having been observed with all due respect. North opened, South bid, and soon the game was on like old times. Any hint of what happened to Snuggles, Mr. Cribbage asked with reference to Mr. Howitzers first rottweiler, which had disappeared sometime around last Thanksgiving. No sign, no sign. Stolen most likely. By one of them people from Oakland, if you know what I mean. Such a shame, said Mrs. Blather. They breed them to fight one another you know. And call it a sport. Those people. Put out to stud, most likely, said Howitzer. Why you mean you never had him snipped said Mrs. Pescatore. In all that time? A dog is a dog, said Howitzer. And he was certainly a brute. Paddleboat here sleeps in the old bed just fine. I'll never forget the day he ate those chillies that belonged to the lesbian couple, said Mrs. Blather. I remember that too. Took right off, knocking bicycles and joggers aside on his way to cool his tuckus in the Estuary. Lucky I didn't get sued. All the animals are trouble, said Cribbage. It's not like back in the day when an animal had to work for a living and none of this New Age dog therapy and whatnot. Back then, a cat got sick he died without any fuss. Too many puppies? Drown 'em in a bucket. I have a tenant who actually keeps a bird in the place and lets him run about after him. Just make darn sure that thing don't make a mess in the carport, I told him. Or out he goes and you shortly after. Pets. Put them all away, I say. Now now, Saxon, he don't mean you. You are family, said the lady to her creature, which thumped its tail once and then was still. At that moment an insistent rapping pulled Cribbage over to the window, which he opened, only to see nothing. What was that about? asked Howitzer, smearing a bit of the cheese log on a cracker before taking a serious bite. Tree branch maybe, said Cribbage and as he sat down, the rapping came again. He went again to the window and the company heard him say, "shoo! shoo!" several times before he returned to the table will a look of irritation. Blackbird, he said. Some sort of crow. Come around begging, no doubt, said Mrs. Blather. People feed them and they come around looking for more handouts, the filthy creatures. When the rapping came a third time, Cribbage went to the window with a broom. After a bit of muttered cursing from the direction of the window there was a little crack of broken glass and the sound of the broom falling as a rather middle-sized raven fluttered into the room to land on the stuffed ram above the fireplace. Well, I'll be damned, said Howitzer. Look at that! Adding a new level of curses to his conversation, Cribbage poked at the bird with the handle of the broom, which had the effect of causing it to hop from one horn to the other and back again. After a few jabs, Cribbage stood there red-faced and panting while the bird looked at him with its head cocked to one side. "Nevermore," Said the bird, quite distinctly. What? All of the humans present exclaimed. "Nevermore," Repeated the bird. Oh for pete's sake, its a pet someone trained to talk, Howitzer exclaimed. In response, Cribbage flailed up at the horns with his broom stick and was soon joined by Howitzer, who tried to wack the bird down with the end of his walking stick. This resulted in breaking one of the horns and knocking the big head off of the wall into the fireplace grate, from where a cloud of dust and ash roiled outward. The Raven found a new position in the chandalier high above them. Cribbage determined to evict this unwelcome tenant at all costs pulled open a drawer to retrieve a vintage 1916 Cavalryman's service revolver. Two shots and the chandalier came down onto the bridge table with a snap of sparks and a spectacular crash, plunging the place into darkness until Cribbage got a floor lamp to illuminate quite a mess, rendered a bit stickier by the contents of a former cut glass decanter of South African port, which Saxon and Paddleboat began lapping up with great gusto. The raven, however, was gone. That was rather violent, said Mrs. Blather. And now the port is all gone. Sometimes violence is necessary, said Cribbage as he put away his revolver. Meanwhile, the raven found sanctuary on the sign above The Old Same Place where he emitted laughing sounds as couples left the bar until Suzie came out to see him up there. She offered him a couple pretzles, which he accepted, in all likelihood reinforcing the learned begging behavior, but he never went back to Mr. Cribbage's place. He did fly out over the estuary to join the macaw that had once lived inside a cage in Mr. Howitzer's foyer, and which had been let loose by accident during the Affair of the Chickens and Mrs. Almeida. You can't go home again, indicated the raven to the macaw, who then appeared satisfied with freedom and his current fate. Its a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets. But deep inside the snug of the Old Same Place Bar sits one bartender still puzzling over Life's Persistent Questions. Suzie Maldonado. "Pretty bird!" said a yellow cockatiel. "Pretty bird!" That's just the way it is on the Island. Have a great week.
MARCH 23, 2008 IN THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER This week's headline photo comes from Javier's garden where Spring has happened with a vengeance.
It may be spring here in northern cal, but the rest of the country is having some severe weather issues and the consequences are far from being over for states from Missouri to Mississippi. Recent torrential rainstorms have flooded many towns along the Mississippi River and its tributaries. Even after the rains have stopped, runoff threatens to reflood many hard hit areas.
Arkansas emergency management officials have said the early estimate of statewide damage to homes, businesses and infrastructure was at $2 million, though that figure was expected to grow. Forecasts show it likely will be the middle of this week before rivers statewide see significant drops. Arkansas Gov. Mike Beebe has declared 35 counties disaster areas. Last week's torrential rainstorms also caused flooding in parts of Ohio, Indiana and southern Illinois and in wide areas of Missouri. At least 17 deaths have been linked to flooding, wet roads and other weather effects over the past week, and one person is missing in Arkansas. Thousands of Missouri residents have fled to Red Cross shelters or to the homes of friends or relatives. While water is receding in most areas of Missouri, the state's southeast corner still faces threats. The Mississippi River was expected to reach 41.5 feet Monday at Cape Girardeau, nearly 10 feet above flood stage. New Madrid expects a crest nearly 8 feet above flood stage Wednesday, and the Mississippi at Caruthersville should reach 9 feet above flood stage Friday. If the Mississippi reaches 42 feet at Cape Girardeau, it would flood 100,000 acres of land and force evacuations of outlying homes, weather service meteorologist Robin Smith said. The city's downtown is protected by a 54-foot flood wall. Like your global warming now?
This weekend saw a range of protests in recognition of the Iraq war having reached Year 5 of bloody morass with no end in sight. There is no end in sight largely because the goals for staying there have changed with the winds of the Bush flip-flop agenda. The Bush Administration has flip-flopped so much, in concert with so much gusty over-warm verbiage that a great wind emits from Washington these days powerful enough to push harbor seals off of their melting ice flows at Pribilof and ground the planes that are part of America's northernmost defense shield. Its a real problem and the local AFNAV commander there keeps sending wires to the Pentagon about it, but those boys are all blaming Global Warming now. Especially since they ducked responsibility for 9/11, they are really glad to blame somebody else for a change. After all, regardless of laxity in AA security, FAA regulations, and lack of martial arts training in flight attendants, nobody seems to ever have asked how x billions spent on national defence could allow something as big as an airplane come close enough to something vaguely of military interest such as the Pentagon so as to crash into it. Heaven forbid the plane had been carrying something like, say, bombs. It was a "surprise", you say. Really? All the money spent on defence assumed that an attacker like Russia or Japan, would send a telegram with dates and times for the next Pearl Harbor? Such a message would be worded something like,
After five years, the US has lost more dead and wounded than five 9/11's put together, hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqis are dead, a savage internecine war appears unstoppable, our few allies are dropping out one by one, shaking their heads, our people have descended to the lowest animal denominator imaginable since the Gestapo, our homeland civil rights are in tatters, and the once middle-class suburb has become a fetid stone-age swamp of radical kill-American ideology as well as an excellent proving ground for irregular warfare tactics on behalf of our enemies. In Babylon, the usual block-traffic stuff happened in low-key style, while in Berkeley the usual illogical associational reasoning paired Iraq with the World Bank, global warming, and the WTO, but it was a sunny day, so few people bothered to get arrested there. A bunch of hooligans from one of the nastier motorcyle clubs showed up to counter-demonstrate at the wildly illogical Marines Recruiting Station that the City would rather have removed. And for very good reasons. The MC club claimed to be supporting patriotism and pro-Marines and pro-this and that. Which is fine, but Berkeley, the home of radical Leftism is really a stupid stupid place to put a recruiting station and some jarhead somewhere will be doing extra laps and pushups for that wacko idea. Its five years down and, according to all the Generals, at least five more to go, citing "previous insurrection histories". Previous history? What the devil are these people citing? France in Algeria? Incidently, that Lyddie Johnson, the poster girl for American torture techniques, recently issued some inflammatory and unrepenetant remarks regarding that whole sad episode at Abu Graib. Refusing to apolize or admit wrong in piling naked human beings in heaps, attacking them with guard dogs and various other sadistic acts, she accused the media of causing the problems by publishing the photographic evidence. So here you go.
Osama recently issued yet more pronouncements and still nobody knows where he is. A hooligan motorcycle club is defending the Marines in Berkeley. And still the sun comes up each morning to start another impossible day.
Its been a quiet week on the Island, our hometown set here on the edge of the San Francisco Bay. The gorgeous weather had all the folks out taking in the first genuinely warm rays in a while. Northern California can be as deceptive as a CIA Operative when the seasons turn. Outside the sun streams down, coaxing up a few hardy early blooms, but a chill wind lets you know summer has a ways to go before arriving for real. When Spring gets going here, it is a riot of color, an explosion of fecundity. Spring is the most dangerous season in Northern California. Maybe it is different in other places, but here, wise men remain indoors until June and order pizza for dinner. Bees dive-bombing the clover, hummingbirds bayonetting the lavendar that is throwing out punches this way and that. Army ants on the march and squirrels conducting reconnaissance forays add to the mayhem, while racoons begin nightly raids. The daisy bush bursts with yellow ack-ack blooms. Squadrons of swallows streak overhead and then, worst of all, there are the girls in their summer dresses. Meanwhile, somewhere overhead, flying in stealth mode -- that naked fat boy keeps firing off at random his erring arrows. Sadistic bastard. Here comes Johnnie, happy and carefree as a lark, striding down the avenue with ruddy cheeks and full confidence. But after him comes Jane, armed with those sharpshooter eyes, a flippy skirt and strappy high heels. Suddenly, Johnnie is down! His face wan and his appetite poor, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as Jane cradles his head among the wildly blooming daisies, another victim of an IED. In the heart, poor lad. Improvised Erotic Device. Yes, Spring is the most dangerous Season. The Native Sons of the Golden West held its annual Sunday brunch at its clubhouse down by the marina. "Peeps" were presented | |
Weekly News, Reviews, Music and Satire 
